We Can Count On Them
by Juliejuly
Summary: "I'm thinking about giving up." D'Artagnan and another recruit are taken prisoner by a group of bandits and all d'Artagnan is sure of is that someone is coming. My first fanfiction ever! I'm so excited. I hope it's okay. COMPLETE! :)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise isn't mine.**

* * *

There had been missions before, of course, but d'Artagnan couldn't help the feeling that this was his first _real_ one. The others, he had completed as an outsider. Now he was a recruit. A Musketeer recruit.

And this was normal. Every recruit had to go through it.

In the front two musketeers, in the rear two musketeers – none of them being the Inseparables, thank God – and in between five of the newest members of the garrison. They were carrying a letter or a message of some kind to a duke somewhere. No one knew the details, because the details weren't important. Important was that they were finally out in the field, finally doing what they were supposed to.

He was riding alongside René, a boy that was a few years older than him and had been a recruit the longest of the five of them. He was tall, well-built and, all in all, a textbook example of a worthy soldier; muscular but slim, kind but strict, and, at least going by the rumours d'Artagnan had heard, brave but not reckless.

As if guessing that the Gascon was thinking about him, René turned around and glanced casually in his direction, openly displaying his dissatisfaction with the situation. "Why did they have to drag us out here?" he muttered angrily. "I had a lot of better things to do at the garrison. I have to train if I want to become a good Musketeer."

Unsure if he was supposed to answer, d'Artagnan settled for a mumbled reply. "This _is_ training."

"What was that?" René queried, then looked closer at the dark-haired boy. "Hey, I know you. You're the fourth in the Inseparable Trinity _._ How does it feel to be their newest pet?"

" _Not_ a pet," d'Artagnan protested, feeling his rage rise and trying futilely to contain the burning fire, just the way Athos had taught him.

 _Everyone can speak and scream,_ his mentor had told him. _But not everyone can control themselves not to. Only a wise man can master his fears and anger._

And while d'Artagnan wasn't necessarily _wise,_ he intended to be one day.

René laughed. "We'll see about that." The remark set d'Artagnan's teeth on edge, but he was still attentive enough to know it was supposed to do just that, and therefore decided not to react. After a while, René seemed to lose interest and spurred on his mount, moving closer to the front of the group and leaving d'Artagnan behind to dwell on his thoughts.

They travelled quickly, only letting their horses rest for a few minutes every now and then and not even stopping for lunch. When the afternoon was already slowly drifting into an early evening, they noticed a town in the distance. Even their tired mounts seemed happier all of a sudden and galloped toward the houses in a last burst of energy.

It didn't take long for d'Artagnan to realise that something was off. The streets were bustling, which wasn't necessarily an unusual occurrence at this hour, but there was something in the frantic movements of the people running around that made him force his horse ahead without regard to the Musketeers by his side, and jump out of the saddle as soon as he had passed the gates and reached the first streets.

Sword in hand, he moved closer to the commotion. He spied carefully around a corner and caught his breath.

Houses were burning. A few people were still running or crawling about, but many of them were lying on the ground, motionless. It looked like a battlefield with normal villagers, mothers, _children_ in the role of dead soldiers. A heavy stench was in the air and it was a stench d'Artagnan was much too familiar with; smoke, blood and death all mixed into one.

He felt the unimaginable urge to scream his throat raw, but commanded himself to try and conquer the fear.

Twenty or so bandits stormed out of a near house and by his weak hideout. He had to duck back behind the wall, like a coward who was watching disaster unfold, unable to help. Somewhere in the distance, the ground rumbled, sounding like an explosion had been set off.

There were probably more bandits, scattered all over town.

Thirty, forty, how many in total?

He released his breath and it drew a cloud into the hot, stale air. They couldn't hope to fight so many and win. He knew they were _Musketeers_ ; they weren't scared of anything, they didn't back off. Ever. But maybe this time they should.

He pushed his head back forward and watched on, his gaze roaming about, calculating. It wasn't a big town, more like a village, actually. Was that good or bad? Could they use it to their advantage? There weren't many people left. Good? Hardly. But it wasn't entirely bad either. With less lives to protect there was more they could do …

He almost didn't hear the two horses come up behind him. As he spun around to either greet or fight them, he was met with two familiar riders and quickly adapted to the new development.

"You have to ride back!" he yelled over the roar of the fire and the screams in the distance. "You have to warn the others! There are too many to fight!"

Villers, an elder Musketeer, nodded and whirled his horse around without question. He rode away, quickly swallowed up by smoke and the general chaos. The other animal stood still, its rider already climbing to the ground.

"What about you?" René asked, his blue eyes regarding the Gascon warily. "You just gonna let these people die?"

D'Artagnan shrugged uncertainly. "Would you believe me if I told I had a plan?"

René shrugged, too. "Since I don't have one, I would probably go with whatever you're about to do. Even if it _is_ stupid."

D'Artagnan smiled and nodded, determined as always. But before the pair could make another step, someone screamed, someone grunted and two people – who were probably bandits – were storming in their direction. Swords crossed. The clang of metal drowned in the noises around them and d'Artagnan felt his muscled burn from the strain of keeping the blade away from his exposed throat. He whirled around, then brought his own weapon down on his adversary. He watched the man crumble to the ground and already found another man running toward him. He wanted to engage, but two muscular arms caught him around the waste and held him tight. His sword was ripped away and he was suddenly totally defenceless.

Looking to the right, he found that René was in a similar predicament, two burly men holding him from behind and a third pressing his sword to his throat. He decided to take his eyes off his fellow Musketeer, and instead found them landing on another gruff face, staring him down.

They were surrounded.

A man came through the circle of bandits, clapping his hands mockingly. D'Artagnan could see him through the blurry air, but couldn't hear a sound.

The man smiled. His lips parted and his voice boomed, over the fire and over the bombs, "Well done. You two have knocked out two of my men. I could train you. You and I will be great together."

D'Artagnan's ears rang. He found that his voice wasn't working and he suspected that neither was his brain. What did the man mean? Why would he assume that d'Artagnan would _ever_ work for him? Didn't he know _anything_ about him?

But of course he didn't.

Something came down hard on his head and made his world go black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay. _Wow_. That's all I have to say. The reaction to this simple little story was bigger and kinder and awesomer than what I was hoping for. Thank you to MusketeerAdventure, GoGirl212, Tidia, Rita Marx, FierGascon, watlocked, IWillNeverStopFangirling and Katie for the awesome, great, great, _great_ reviews! Thanks to everyone for reading! I mean it. This is amazing. (I know I'm blabbering, but it's just so exciting!)**

 **For everyone who was worried or wondering: I'm planning on posting one chapter per day, since I already have a great deal of the story finished.**

 **Oh, one more thing. In the following two chapters, torture is mentioned – it's nothing explicit, but it's obvious enough. I don't want anyone to feel bad about it, so if you're not necessarily a fan of torture, it's maybe better to skip the next two chapters.**

 **(Maybe wow wasn't _all_ I had to say.) Anyway, here we go! I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

D'Artagnan blinked his eyes open to a depressing gloom. He tried to look around the room, but the pain in his head spiked and he stilled his movements. As far as he could tell, there was nothing much to see anyway.

"You back?" someone asked from his right. D'Artagnan, leaning halfway against a wall, struggled to keep the ache in his skull and the nausea at bay, as he slowly rolled his head around and to the face the voice belonged to.

He couldn't make out much in the darkness other than a human-sized blob next to him. Probably René, though. D'Artagnan could hardly tell if the shadow looked anything like him, but the deep voice fit, and so did the snippets of memory d'Artagnan's brain was slowly conjuring up. They had reached a village and _René_ had galloped up behind him. They had been in a fight, _René_ by his side. They had been restrained, _René_ and him both, and then …

Nothing. So it wasn't too far-fetched to believe that the prisoner sharing a cell with him was also René.

"Where are we?" d'Artagnan asked groggily. His eyes ached at the frantic gesture the figure threw his way.

"No idea," René said. "Woke up only a little while ago myself. Nothing interesting's happened since then."

D'Artagnan decided not to aggravate his burning throat any further and simply let his head fall limp against his shoulders, leaving the silence to stretch and twist and deafen.

They didn't have to wait long before a door in the wall opened and candlelight shone into the room. Both of them blinked owlishly, but the door was shut almost instantly and they were once more dipped into almost-darkness.

"Hello," a manly voice carried to the two prisoners. D'Artagnan could tell that whoever was talking wasn't the only newcomer. More than one pair of feet were uncomfortably shuffling around.

"Hi," René answered casually and d'Artagnan smirked.

"You two are great," the man mused. "Well, you're mine now. From now on, you work for me. You do anything I say."

A moment of silence ensued, then René laughed a booming laugh and d'Artagnan forced his unwilling throat to giggle along. He didn't notice when a third voice joined in.

"That _is_ funny," the captor agreed mockingly. "Look at them," he said, clearly addressing someone else. "Laughing like that about something so serious. Laughing in the face of truth."

A few grunts and chuckles were heard through the cell. It sounded like a choir of people, deep as the voices were, but d'Artagnan suspected that the sound was merely echoing off the stone walls and making one sound seem like a hundred different ones. Straining his eyes, he could only just make out three dark silhouettes standing side by side – which didn't mean that there weren't more men hiding somewhere in the darkness.

"Now that we've got that out of the way," the voice continued, "let's begin, shall we? Who of you two wants to go first?"

D'Artagnan knew a dire situation when he got into one and he could tell how serious things had turned, so he shrunk back against the wall and tried to be as quiet and small as possible. René, on the other hand, chose that exact moment to gather up his spit and send it all the way through the room. D'Artagnan hoped against hope that their captor wouldn't notice, but of course he did. He grunted, then said, "As you wish. Take that one."

They carried the boy out of the room under protests, yells and yelps. Then, for a while, everything was still. Then, something clunked and then the screams started, loud and piercing, and alone.

René was thrown back into the cell about an hour later – it was hard to tell without the constant movement of the sun – and he didn't move; not when he landed on the cold, bitter floor, not when they shackled him to the wall and not when one of the guards kicked him in the ribs. He looked dead.

It was d'Artagnan's turn next.

* * *

It was sheer impossible to keep track of time.

The men came every once in a while and took one of the prisoners with them. They never took both, and they never left them both behind. They seemed intent on breaking them apart, but somehow, in the end, they both landed back in the same cell again, and everything started anew.

Whenever they came, they brought food with them, but those were always meagre meals; mostly dry bread and water. They promised them better food, better beds, better light and better friends, _if …_

The ifs were endless and constant. D'Artagnan, for his part, didn't quite know anymore what exactly he was refusing. But in the end, it all always seemed to amount to the same thing: the man who had captured them wanted them to join him. And this was all part of the _training._

They spent their minutes mostly in silence. They were unconscious or sleeping a great deal of the time, one or both of them dead to the world. D'Artagnan sometimes found that the only thing able to calm him down was listening to the steady rhythm of René's breaths – proof that he wasn't totally alone in this whole thing. Even if no one ever answered. Even if his endless screams were always met only with hallow walls and bitter silence. There was someone there.

The Room of Doom, as d'Artagnan had decided to refer to it, was unimpressive at best and could only be described as an oversized cupboard with a chair in the middle and just enough room for one person to move all the way around. Whatever instruments their captor ever used on them, he kept them well hidden to inspire even greater fear. Sometimes, though, when the man would rage around or make a frantic move with his hands, d'Artagnan could detect a glint at the edge of his vision. He was pretty sure that one of the instruments included some kind of blade, or something metallic, at least.

Ever since he had woken up in the cell for the first time, d'Artagnan's whole body hurt; he could hardly remember a time it didn't. He gradually stopped trying to move, stopped fighting against the chains. _More_ and _less_ ceased to exist; there was only pain and _pain_ and **pain.** It blurred together into a never-ending cycle. D'Artagnan tried to at least keep track of how many times he was hoisted out of the cell and into the Room of Doom, but with the unrelenting unconsciousness that kept lingering at the edges of his existence, he quickly lost track.

Words were rare and gruff, and grew even scarcer over time. Every once in a while, d'Artagnan would force a few syllables through his burning throat and over his parched lips, saying into the quiet that _they were coming,_ that _they would be out of this soon enough,_ that _they could count on their friends, their captain, their garrison_ , just so no one would lose hope. But he couldn't tell if the message ever came across, because René never said anything in return.

Until he did.

It was another endless minute of another endless hour. It all seemed endless down here, in the dark, because everything was always waiting for the next round and then waiting for it to be over and then waiting for it to start again. The captors were good at what they were doing; they knew exactly how to plan it. They put precisely enough time between two ordeals to let the prisoners start hoping that it was over, only to rip the hope away again. And that was a dangerous game, d'Artagnan knew. What could a man rely on if not his hope?

So he said into the darkness, just to assure himself, since he thought that René was sleeping, "They're coming, you know." His voice was broken and raw and he himself couldn't understand the words. But someone else obviously did, because a voice sounded through the dense shadows.

"How can you be so sure?"

D'Artagnan flinched and the chains around his wrist clanked as they dug into his burning flesh. He held his breath and released it through clenched teeth, riding out the pain.

"René?"

"Who else?"

D'Artagnan let out another deep breath. "How are you?"

René disregarded his question completely, instead only repeating his own. "How can you be so sure?"

 _I'm not,_ d'Artagnan thought. Frankly, he didn't even know if the last hope he was clinging to so desperately was at all rational anymore. Reality and subconscious had started drifting together at some point, and it was hard to tell what he could still believe in, so he had decided to believe in whatever made him feel better, _they are coming_ being the thing that had the biggest impact on his ever waning courage.

How to justify that, though?

"I just know they are," he whispered, stopping himself from shrugging. He listened and heard René grunt, obviously not at all satisfied.

"Right," he breathed. "Who are _they,_ anyway?"

"You know, Treville, The Musketeers," d'Artagnan said. _Athos, Porthos, Aramis,_ he added silently.

"The Inseparables?" René taunted as if reading his mind. "And just why would they come, d'Artagnan? Huh? Because we're missing? Because _you_ 're missing?" He made a sound that was probably supposed to be a chuckle. "You overestimate yourself. You overestimate your own value. A lone soldier's life is worth a hundred, a thousand times less than the lives of the whole garrison. The captain would never let anyone go after us."

That was the most d'Artagnan had heard René speak in a long while, and to his horror, he found himself starting to believe the words. They sounded reasonable. They sounded _true._ They were coming out of the mouth of a man who believed them; a man who had turned to the only one able to restore his faith, and had been disappointed.

"I'm thinking about giving up," René said, and went quiet.

D'Artagnan was quiet, too. He wanted to scream _no. No, no, no,_ because they were _coming_! But were they?

"I've seen him do it," he said finally, the ringing in his ears drowning out the whispered words. And he waited. And he heard,

"Who?" Quiet and small and lost.

"Treville."

"Do what?"

D'Artagnan inhaled deeply and let the air rush out. It burned. It was so hard to _breathe,_ so how was he supposed to do it a whole lifetime long?

"I've seen him send men after only one soldier. I've seen him move mountains. I've seen him persuade the _king,_ René, and I've seen him go against him if he saw fit."

Nothing. Silence. D'Artagnan decided to continue, because he had to make his point clear. He had to make him _see._ "I saw the Musketeers fight for one another, _die_ for one another. They would die for us, too. I know it. And they _are coming."_

Nothing moved. Nothing happened. Maybe René was unconscious. Maybe he didn't want to listen anymore. D'Artagnan felt something hot and wet spill down his cheeks, and he didn't hold it back – he let it run and drip, drip, drip down his chin and onto his wet clothes.

It was silent.

They came again and they took d'Artagnan and then there was nothing and he woke up and there were no breaths and no heartbeat and he thought that René was dead and he cried and wailed, but then the door was opened and the man was thrown in and d'Artagnan saw him move and all he could do was ask, "What did you do?", making it sound a lot more accusing than he wanted to, and he squinted into the light until the door closed them off from the world.

And the blob that was René moved and said, "Nothing."

And d'Artagnan didn't want to let himself believe anything that wasn't true, so he asked, "Did you give in?"

And the simple word "No" floated over to him, dark and sad and blissful.


	3. Chapter 3

More time went by, more meals brought, more encounters with the Room of Doom. D'Artagnan started to drift, and he felt René drifting, too. They didn't talk anymore; the silence in their cell was deep and all-consuming. Their captors had stopped playing around, and they were only ever asked one single question anymore:

"Will you join me?"

"No."

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

"No." Breathless now.

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

 _Yes._ "No."

Pain.

"Will you join me?"

 _Yes. But I can't say that._

Pain.

D'Artagnan didn't know what he was fighting for. He knew that _they were coming,_ but he also knew that _just why would they come, d'Artagnan? Huh? Because we're missing? Because_ you're _missing?_ The two thoughts had grown together, had become one – so much so that it was impossible for him to think one without thinking the other.

And which one was the right one, anyway? Huh? He couldn't say. He couldn't say many things.

Once, when he couldn't stand to sleep and couldn't stand to be awake, he started talking into the quiet. "René?" he said, sounding in his own ears like a little, little child with nowhere to go. "Can we talk, please?"

There was no answer.

"René?"

Nothing.

"Please, please, answer me."

Silence.

"René! I know you're there! I need to talk to someone!" But there was no one there to react and d'Artagnan's cheeks were hot, his eyes heavy, but not wet. Dry, because he didn't cry. He couldn't.

* * *

Time came and went, and d'Artagnan was taken from the cell again, leaving René behind to be his ignorant, silent self. He was brought to the Room of Doom, sat on the stool and shackled. The man he was now so familiar with came in. In the weak light of a lone flickering candle, it was hard to see his face. But he already knew enough. Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, small built. Not suspicious in the least – yet d'Artagnan had learnt to hate him.

The man smiled and tilted his head, as if greeting a son he had forgotten about. "What a beautiful day, wouldn't you say?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer, instead deciding to stare at the dark floor under his feet. He had learnt that, too.

"Very well, how shall we begin today?"

He walked around d'Artagnan, as he always did, and stopped behind his back to gather his tools, as he always did. D'Artagnan tensed, but then told his muscles to relax. He wasn't going through this. Not again.

"I will join you," he said out of the blue, his voice stronger than it had been in days, the wish for it to be _over_ shining through and lingering in the middle of the room.

He felt his captor pause, heard the metal stop clattering and a deafening silence push against his eardrums. Goosebumps broke out on his skin. He felt something cold glide along his shoulder blades and braced himself.

But no new pain came.

"Finally," the captor purred into his ear. " _Finally._ You were a tough one, but I knew I would crack you wide open soon enough. And that friend of yours isn't far behind, I'll tell you that. He's been crying like a babe all day yesterday."

D'Artagnan knew he should have been furious. He knew he was supposed to jump up and punch the man just for the insult, and _at least_ kill him for everything else. But he didn't have it in him anymore. He didn't have _anything_ in him anymore.

The captor smiled. "Okay. Come on."

The Gascon wanted desperately to ask where they were going, but his voice didn't work. His mouth refused to open. He stood up and followed the man who answered the unspoken question anyway.

"You're going to prove it."

Without the presence of one of the guards' hands that would otherwise always cover his eyes, d'Artagnan could see where he was being taken for the first time. He blinked, his eyesight blurry after so long in the dark. He didn't really feel the urge to look around, but his training wouldn't let him ignore his surroundings. He saw a window that was letting in the light. They weren't that high up, maybe on the first floor. He couldn't detect any doors, not a single one – but then again, his sight wasn't too good and his mind not very rested. It was very possible that he had simply missed an exit.

Not that it mattered. Even though the small man was his only companion at the moment, the Gascon was too weak to overpower his captor on his own, much less with the shackles restricting his movements. Besides, there was still René. Escaping without him wasn't really an option, even if it were possible.

He let his head hang. There was nothing else to hold it high for.

D'Artagnan was led to a cell, not unlike his own. _No,_ he corrected himself, _exactly_ like his own. The captor unlocked and opened the heavy door and d'Artagan saw René cower inside.

"Remember, the guards are coming back any second, so no funny business, are we clear?"

 _Any second, any second …_ d'Artagnan's breath hitched. The man stepped toward him and unlocked his shackles, letting them clatter, heavy, to the floor. The Gascon didn't dare move, didn't dare _breathe_ for fear that this was only a dream and he would wake up any second into bitter reality.

"Now, if you want to be one of us, if you want it all to end, you will kill him. You will show me that you are truly on our side. That you would kill your own friend on my command."

He held out a pistol and d'Artagnan could only stare in awe at the weapon, at the opportunity he was being given. The world stopped moving, stilled. The air became stale and unbreathable; his ears rang.

Was this even _possible?_ Or had he gone completely mad?

"Well, take it."

He didn't have to be told twice – not then, not ever. His weak, shaking hand shot forward; his fingers curled around the cold metal. He felt it under his skin, felt it pulsing with the desire to help, to kill, to save.

The pistol was ready.

It was in _his_ hand, waiting _._ And the guards would only be coming back _any second,_ which wasn't _now._

So he was ready, too.

"Can – can I say goodbye?"

"Of course." The captor waved his hand toward René in a casual gesture. "Just make it quick."

D'Artagnan kneeled down in front of René's form and wrapped his arms around the shivering body. He held the recruit's head to his chest, his ear to his lips.

"I have a gun," he whispered. As soon as the words were out, René's head perked up and his irises showed themselves, blinking madly in the light.

"Sh, sh. He can't know that I've told you. Don't say anything and don't move. We're getting out of here, okay?"

René nodded ever so slightly.

"Do you remember which key they used on your shackles?" the Gascon breathed, glancing at the bundle the captor was holding in his hand. "The last one is for the door. My key was the second one. And yours?"

"I think it's the first," René said back, his voice almost inaudible.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Okay. Brace yourself."

He stood, backed up a few wary steps and pointed the shaking pistol at René's still shadow, as if he was about to shoot him – as if he could _ever_ shoot a fellow Musketeer.

 _But for it to end? For it all to be over? Would you?_

He shook his head frantically, wiping hot, hot tears off his cheeks. His trembling finger found the trigger and started squeezing. René lay oddly limp and unresponsive on the ground. D'Artagnan squeezed harder. The trigger moved willingly. At the last second, the Gascon whirled around and trained the weapon on their captor's chest.

He squeezed with all his strength. It clicked. Nothing happened.

The captor smiled sadly, almost as if he had caught a little boy doing something naughty. "Well, well," he said. "Still some spirit in there. Still not totally one of us, are you?" He sneered. "Guards!"

D'Artagnan scolded himself for not noticing that the weapon hadn't been loaded – he knew what a loaded pistol felt like; he should have felt the difference –, but he quickly forced his sluggish thoughts forward. He couldn't hear anyone coming, not yet, and he was free and he had a _weapon,_ damn it, and there were no shackles around his wrists.

This was it.

He barrelled straight into the man, without thought, and ripped the keys out of his lax hand. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored, ignored it all, including the fact that the captor was nowhere near unconscious and that he probably had a gun tucked away somewhere under his shirt – a _loaded_ one, this time.

He just stormed into the cell and lay the keys into René clumsy hands, then stood wide in front of him to give him enough time to free himself.

The captor sneered. He didn't seem happy, but now d'Artagnan could hear steps in the background; heavy boots dragging over wood. Their time was running out fast. He knew that. His training was slowly kicking in, the Musketeer that he was meant to be trickling back into his battered body. There were threats steadily approaching, but they were still far enough away to be ignored. He had to focus on the here. The now.

Sure enough, there was suddenly a gun in the captor's hand and he pointed it at René. D'Artagnan shifted so that he was shielding his friend even better. He held his chin high.

"Stop unshackling yourself or I kill him," the man breathed, levelling the pistol at d'Artagnan's chest. The Gascon wanted to scream back to his friend that he shouldn't listen, but something pulled at his pants and a quick glance behind his back revealed that René had already finished his task, quicker than anyone had given his tired hands credit for.

The captor moved a finger onto the trigger and d'Artagnan saw the little flicker. He had stared down the barrel of a gun before; he knew how to react. He jumped back, pulling René with him, as the shot rang out. Then they got up, supporting each other, and started to run.


	4. Chapter 4

The guards were right behind them and there weren't many possibilities as to where they could turn. There was only that one long corridor d'Artagnan had been shown; behind that lay the unknown, and the unknown posed an even bigger threat.

The only remaining option was the window.

D'Artagnan sprinted toward it, his body burning even through the numbing effect of adrenalin, and René, catching on, followed eagerly. The Gascon let the other recruit inspect the opening quickly, before the screams behind them got too deafening.

"Time's up," d'Artagnan panted, almost choking on his own tongue. René nodded, his bloody face and bloody body already backing away. He got ready just when the first guard burst around the corner.

The huge newcomer had a dagger and he knew how to throw.

D'Artagnan saw the small blade whistle through the air and in René's direction. He felt frozen to the spot, but he pushed and pushed and pushed himself until he could stop watching and _engage._ He tore his eyes away from the guards – whose numbers were steadily increasing –, jumped at René and pushed him out the window, using the momentum to sail through himself. He heard shots fired, felt bullets and other things whistle through the air next to his head, until the wind drowned out every sound and they were falling.

They landed hard and all the breath was knocked out of their lungs. He let himself rest for a moment, but a bullet hit the grass somewhere near his head and he forced himself up. He was a _Musketeer_ and he was a _d'Artagnan,_ and because of that he could never give up, much less now. He urged his pulsing body to move, dragged René to his feet, too, and together they stumbled toward the huge forest nearby.

Once he started running, everything fell into place. He hadn't run in such a long time – it felt unreal. Winter was without question already approaching; the air was cold and burning in his starving lungs. It was satisfying to finally feel a pain he knew how to numb; a pain he was sure would go away once he stopped, sat down and rested long enough. Not yet, though. It was time to move, and move fast.

He knew how to run, had always been good at it. Now it was just a matter of will. A matter of not collapsing.

He panted and ran and grunted and pulled René along. Sometimes René pulled him along. They reached the trees but didn't stop; they continued on and on and on. D'Artagnan knew that there were people following them, there _had to_ be _,_ but for some reason he couldn't hear anything except for the heartbeat in his ears.

He'd been trained to run for hours on end, but this time, his body wouldn't play along. It didn't even seem that long when they _finally_ collapsed behind two huge beeches, their breaths hitching and their visions greying. The last thing d'Artagnan registered was a new burn somewhere in his left thigh.

* * *

When he woke up, René was lying, motionless, beside him. D'Artagnan groaned. He wanted to sleep, but they needed to continue, needed to get to _them._ As soon as possible. They needed for this to be over.

"René," he croaked pitifully. There was no response. He grunted anew, his body flaring, and rolled onto his belly.

Something dug into his thigh.

He screamed and stopped and vanished.

* * *

The next time he came to, René was sitting, inspecting his own arm. D'Artagnan rubbed his eyes and slowly leaned onto an elbow.

"I've been shot," René said without looking in his direction. He pointed to his left shoulder. "I've bandaged it now, though I don't know how long it'll hold."

D'Artagnan nodded curtly, slowly sitting up. He grimaced and glanced down through half-lidded eyes.

"And you've got a dagger in your leg. Pretty sure that one was meant for me. So thanks."

"No problem," d'Artagnan retorted, smiling sourly before getting to work on his thigh.

The dagger was still nestled in the flesh. He knew from Aramis that he could bleed out if he removed the weapon now, without bandages, the right utensils _or_ the right people around to do the job, but he could hardly imagine walking around with a knife in his body. He had to prioritise.

With two trembling hands around the hilt, he counted from five to one, only to be stopped at _two._ Calmer hands were laid over his. René looked at him, his face relaxed and serious. "Let me do it," he said and d'Artagnan nodded once more, wiping the sweat off his brow.

"Three, two, one."

And out it went.

D'Artagnan saw the world grey at the edges again, but refused to collapse. The bloodied weapon clattered to the ground unnoticed, forgotten. He gritted his teeth, then pushed his hands against the wound just so he had something to do. From far off, he heard cloth tearing. Then there was something around his leg, and he could think a bit clearer.

"Better?" René asked, tying off the makeshift bandage.

"Yes," d'Artagnan said, even though it wasn't. "Let's go."

René sighed and d'Artgnan pulled himself to his good leg, then tested his bad one. It _hurt_ when he stepped on it, but he knew he could manage. He had to.

"Come on," he said to René. "Let's go. It can't be that far."

He didn't say what they both knew, though. Which was that Paris could be _anywhere,_ near, far, on the other side of the world or just around the corner. It could be in any direction. It could be everywhere or nowhere; wherever they turned, they could be walking toward it or even farther away.

And that was the truth. Only neither of them felt the urge to point it out.

* * *

When evening fell, they saw a house.

D'Artagnan, in his dreamy state, was at first sure that the scene was only a trick of his mind. But René beside him stopped, rubbed his eyes and squinted into the distance – exactly at the house – and that could hardly be a coincidence.

They hiked, their legs slow and heavy like lead, and needed a lot longer than they should have to close the small distance. It was a modest hut, not unusual for the countryside; a wooden house and behind it the stables with a few animals. D'Artagnan looked around to make sure no one else was there before knocking.

A head appeared behind a crack in the door. "Yes?" it whispered. Apart from a grey mop of hair, d'Artagnan couldn't see anything – not even if he was talking to a man or a woman.

"Hello. We are d'Artagnan and René, recruits of the King's Musketeers. We are on our way home and were hoping you could let us stay with you for the night."

The head shook, then stepped back and away from the door, all in a frenzy of movement. René pulled d'Artagnan away, crouching in front of the crack himself and lowering his voice to a gentle, if quite raspy murmur. "Okay. I know you can't help us. The bandits would know, wouldn't they?"

The shadow inside moved further, but d'Artagnan couldn't tell what was happening.

"Wait!" René called, louder and more urgent this time. "Can you at least tell us if we're moving in the right direction? We want to get to Paris and we're lost." He took a deep, shaking breath d'Artagnan could more than relate to.

" _Please."_

D'Artagnan could relate to that, too.

For a long while, everything stood still. Then the shadow reappeared also for the Gascon to see. It said, "Paris is a two days' ride from here if you move in that direction."

D'Artagnan exhaled. Two days. That wasn't little, but compared to all the scenarios he had been imagining throughout the day, it was pure heaven. Days he could deal with.

Even if they were on foot.

"I have one last request," René said, nodding, his voice back to the rational bass it normally was. "Do you have any horses you could lend us? We will send them back, of course, as soon as we have reached Paris."

The shadow vanished once more and d'Artagnan had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't be returning this time. René called, "Wait!", but it didn't help. Nothing could have. The quiet steps petered out and they were left alone with only owls for company.

D'Artagnan groaned. "That went well," he commented sarcastically and René threw him a toxic glare.

"I did everything I could."

"Yeah," the Gascon agreed irritably. "And now we're stood out here, alone, without horses or food or so much as a cup of water."

He knew he wasn't being fair; there had been little to no chance that the terrified farmer would have helped them to begin with. But he was exhausted and aching all over. The world was tilting dangerously around him and his whole body was pulsing along with his ever weaker heart. The wound on his thigh had gone through several stages of burning and pain and had then numbed into nothingness, which, d'Artagnan knew, was never a great sign. The idea of a good night's rest had settled into his brain, possible and _real_ for the first time in so long, and now that it had been ripped away again, he was lost, unsure what else to hope and long for.

"But that's hardly my fault," René countered, head held high and arms crossed in front of his chest. He was obviously ready for a fight, too, even though his skin was paler than d'Artagnan remembered it ever being, his cheeks flushed and eyes wild. The blood had been blown or rubbed or washed away with sweat, and left behind were scratches, small, big, shallow, deep. His face was marred and small and drawn.

D'Artagnan struggled to avert his attention. "It for sure wasn't mine!"

"Oh, _really?_ And who chased him away the first time?" René seethed.

"Well, if you hadn't pulled me away –"

The sound of hooves blew over to them on a gentle breeze. They turned around. Two horses were being brought out of the stables by an elderly woman, her hands strong, meaty and unrelenting. The animals looked healthy and young. They were saddled and equipped with bags that seemed to be bursting full. The woman handed the reins over to René and looked to the ground.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. I have children, you know. Be safe," she said and vanished into the house once again.

René looked at d'Artagnan, his orbs glassy and intense, his eyebrows raised. "You were saying?"

The Gascon rolled his eyes and took one of the horses' reins. "Let's just go," he grumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, guys! Three chapters to go! I'm really enjoying writing this and I just hope it's not getting too long or boring. They _are_ getting closer, I promise. :) Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

They travelled throughout the next day, only stopping here and there for a rest. Even with their injuries, they made good time. Noon came and went; the day floated into a chilly afternoon and then into a chillier evening. They followed a crumpled path out of the forest and into another one. D'Artagnan was grateful for the cover of the trees – they made him feel safer than he had in a long time.

After the whole day of riding, the Gascon noticed that René's condition was steadily worsening. He himself felt like collapsing any minute, but his fellow Musketeer looked, if possible, to be off even worse. His head was dipped low over the neck of his mount, his eyes closed.

D'Artagnan, unable to sit up too straight himself, decided that they needed rest. He caught René's reins, almost falling out of the saddle attempting it, and stopped both horses. He dismounted, stumbled over to the other mount and shook his limp friend carefully.

"Hey, René. We're stopping. We're going to rest a little."

The only answer he got was indistinguishable grunt.

"Okay. Let's get you down."

He forced his aching arms up and dug them under René's armpits, ever careful of the injured shoulder, then pulled the man out of the saddle like a sack of potatoes. His arms burnt and his back ached and he wanted to yelp but stifled it with difficulty. René's legs thudded onto the forest ground, limp, heavy and unresponsive. His eyes stayed closed.

D'Artagnan dragged him to the nearest tree and carefully laid him down against the stem. He needed a few moments of breathing and recovering before he could force his body into action; he bound the horses, looked into the saddlebags for water, drank some and made René drink some, too, found food and decided that he couldn't stomach it but forced half a slice of bread down René's throat either way, then sat down, leaning his back against the same tree as René – he found that he needed the indirect contact – and decided to keep watch.

His eyes drooped and he was asleep only a moment later.

* * *

D'Artagnan woke up in the middle of the night. The moon was bright, big and beautiful, as if it wished, by contrast, to underline the ugliness of d'Artagnan's predicament. The Gascon looked to his right, finding René fast asleep, paler than he had seemed before – but whether his condition had actually worsened or his appearance was only a result of the bright white illumination, he couldn't say.

He didn't have the time to figure it out, either, didn't even have the time to register how miserable he himself was feeling, how his wound burned, how soaked the bandages were, or how loudly his head was pounding and his body screaming – because he heard a voice.

There was someone there.

He forced himself to his feet and couldn't supress a groan, even though he knew it could well cost him his life. He tried to straighten up, but something in his back creaked and wouldn't let him. His head snapped around as one of the horses wiggled nervously with its tail, and he reprimanded himself for wasting time. He limped to the animals, dragging his injured leg behind, and then forward, forward, forward, deeper into the trees, until he stumbled upon the distinctive yellow gloom of fire and stopped.

The light was warm and inviting and if d'Artagnan hadn't been so on edge, he might have even let himself enjoy it. As it was, though, he slowly moved closer, wary not to make any sounds, and carefully peeked around two low-hanging branches.

The fire was small and simple, and there were about seven men gathered around it. D'Artagnan took it in and let himself study them closer, catching a few details here and there. He was looking for a certain face, and he found it quickly enough. His heart froze, but he didn't let his body fall into a stupor; instead, he careered back in a frenzy. His legs staggered and stumbled over something, and he landed on the ground. A jolt of pain ran through his body. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the inevitable scream that spilled through his throat. He bit down. A coppery taste spread on his tongue. He bit harder and concentrated on the one single pain he had under control. And he slowly got his bearings.

"Yes," said a voice near the fire. It rang in his ears and echoed off his eardrums a hundred times. He knew the voice well. He also knew the person it belonged to well. He could guess exactly what the man looked like, even though he couldn't see him: his hair messy, his expression unhappy but his scowl well-hidden under the uncaring façade.

"Yes," the voice repeated. "You did a good job."

There was a pause, and then someone else spoke up. "You're getting reckless." The new voice was low and serious.

"I am not," the captor protested. "It was one mistake, _one –"_

"It only takes the one," the other pointed out. "Frankly, I'm pretty disappointed. You've never let anyone escape before. Just what were you _thinking,_ letting a Musketeer anywhere near _another_ Musketeer without guards around? You know they're little devils. And you had nothing better to do than to unshackle him. _And_ give him a weapon."

"It wasn't _loaded,_ " the captor protested.

"It doesn't _matter!_ " D'Artagnan flinched violently as the ground underneath him boomed from the rumbling voice. "Musketeers can make a weapon out of pretty much anything. You should know that by now! But you just had to do it, didn't you? You just had to enforce your superiority, had to show them that you could do _anything._ Well, you can't. And now _I_ have to freeze my ass off to help you find those two idiots, just because you thought you could."

A tense silence followed and d'Artagnan found himself drifting off, right there, on the ground next to the lion's den. After a while, though, the deep voice spoke up again and forced him to focus.

"How long do you plan on doing this for?" it asked. "I have enough of my own affairs to take care of, you know."

D'Artagnan saw the captor shrug in his mind's eye. "I hope we find them tomorrow. You yourself said that we're getting close."

"We are."

"Well, then there's nothing left to worry about."

Obviously, the other man had to object. "Besides your incompetence, of course. I will greatly reconsider our working relationship after this. You can be sure of that."

"You need me just as much as I need you," the captor barked. "And now stop acting all superior and let's focus on what we have to do."

The man grunted. "I will be right back." And it was silent once more.

If nothing before had been, this was definitely d'Artagnan's cue. He had to get away, and not just from there, he had to get away, period. He had to get home, to his brothers, and he had to survive.

He pushed himself up, his muscles groaning but his mouth not producing a single sound, and hurried away. He didn't look back. Heart in his throat, he felt his steps growing quicker and more frantic as his panic increased _._ He could hear the ground rustling behind him, as if someone were following him, but whenever he turned around, all he could see were trees and moss. At one point, he just turned forward and ran, without regard to anything else. He didn't even try to dodge obstacles in his way; to crouch or straighten his back would have been a hundred times more painful that to let the branches add a few scratches to his already marred skin.

His two horses came into view, and then René, sleeping peacefully against the tree. D'Artagnan didn't bother glancing around, didn't bother making sure that they were still alone; he merely prepared the horses as quickly as his weak hands would let him, and then skidded over to his friend.

"René," he whispered harshly. "We have to go."

To his surprise, he was met with two orbs. They were unfocused and twinkling glassily in the silvery light, but it was enough for d'Artagnan.

"Come here. You're going to have to help me."

He slowly, painfully got René to his feet, and supported him all of the five steps to the horses. The animals looked rested and ready. D'Artagnan helped René climb into the saddle of the first one – his own arms burning from the effort –, then mounted himself and positioned himself comfortably behind his friend so that he would be able to support him should the need arise. He grabbed the reins of the other horse and off they went.

D'Artagnan was no stranger to animals. He'd grown up on a farm and he knew what horses were capable of. One loaded as heavily as his, carrying two people at the same time, could hardly be expected to do much more than walk. But that wasn't enough. They had to get away from there as soon as possible.

So he spurred it into gallop.

The animal wouldn't be able to manage that for long. Neither would he, for that matter. His bruises made themselves known and René's body was once more slack against his. He had to stay conscious, though, otherwise they would both fall. And then they would be the easiest prey possible.

So after only a few minutes, he slowed the horse down into a canter and tried to relax. It was hard, because his body seemed to be caught in a cramp – not to mention his bleeding thigh. The horse sputtered and shook, already drained from the effort, and d'Artagnan patted it reassuringly on the neck.

"I know," he muttered. "I'm not feeling too peachy either. But we'll get through this, you and me. Right? And everything will be fine."

The horse's breaths grew more laboured. It carried them up a little hill and down the other side. The whole time, d'Artagnan was half-suspecting that someone might be on their heels – so when he finally did hear a sound, he wasn't surprised as much as he was angry. Couldn't they let him alone for just a freaking _second_?

But, of course, that was too much to ask.

He guided his horse away from the path and deeper into the woods. The sounds came closer and became clearer; they were the sounds of moving horses. He continued on deeper and deeper, his panic flaring – the riders were quickly approaching and he was still in plain sight.

He reached a group of boulders. They were just big enough for a man to hide behind, but not for a grown horse. His mind reeled, his thoughts curled and uncurled, and an idea started forming.

The sound of the horses' hooves became more noticeable. D'Artagnan could count the animals from afar – there were probably three of them, which meant three riders, three men to deal with. He had won against worse odds in the past, but this was not his day. He was tired and bruised and bloody. He couldn't win this. He couldn't win anything.

He pulled René off the horse, his hands rude and ungentle in the haste, then took one bag off the saddle and left the other three on. He hid René behind the boulder.

Then he crouched down and started planning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Let's see about the riders, shall we? ;)**

* * *

The horses were noisy and eager as they stomped even deeper into the woods. D'Artagnan watched them go with a deep and saddening sense of loss. He hadn't even said goodbye, had only spurred them in the right direction, used them for his purpose.

Did that make him a bad person?

He didn't know and he didn't want to. He crawled closer to the boulders, crouched lower over René's body and waited.

He noticed that René was warm to the touch. He noticed that his own wound was burning, his leg swollen and red. There was a lot of blood, his and René's, and it mixed and dripped and ran to the ground. They were leaking onto the forest floor; they were damaged and broken, but they both still _were_ , which was a lot more than he had dared to hope fpr.

And he waited.

And he drifted.

He snapped to attention at the first signs of someone nearing, hardly supressing a grimace when a group of three riders came closer.

The second one of the trio was clearly their captor. In front of him was a huge, gruff-looking man that was inspecting the ground carefully and leading the little troupe. D'Artagnan watched intently as the man suddenly stopped, looking a lot like someone struck by Porthos. His meaty face reeled and frantically searched the ground for something it didn't seem to find. He turned back to his two companions, shrugged and dismounted on the same exact spot d'Artagnan had only minutes before.

"What is it?" the captor asked, joining his friend on the ground. "Is something wrong?"

"The prints," the man said by way of explanation, and d'Artagnan recognized his deep voice as the one that had been arguing with the captor at the fire.

"Do they end here?"

"No. They just get shallower." The man whirled around and pointed to something d'Artagnan couldn't make out. "See those? Their distinctive shape indicates that the horse was heavily burdened, carrying either a lot – and I mean _a lot_ – of food or two people. But here," he pointed to the soil closer to where d'Artagnan was hiding, "they change. The horse suddenly got lighter."

"What does that mean?" the third man spoke up for the first time. He was skinny and small, in that regard not unlike the captor himself; he had black hair and a slouched figure. D'Artagnan could make all that out from his hiding spot. Did that mean that they would be able to see him, too, if they happened to look in the right direction?

He sure hoped not.

"I just told you."

"Maybe they ate all the food?" the captor suggested, looking bemused and serious.

The big man snorted. "You really _are_ as stupid as you look," he mocked.

"I'm at least _trying_ to figure this out!"

"Well, stop. I already know what happened."

D'Artagnan swallowed, his throat as dry as sand. The saliva wouldn't go down and he felt the sudden urge to spit it out, but stopped himself.

"Enlighten me."

The burly man moved back to his horse, looking pretty smug in his conviction. He lifted his chin, his shoulders wide and huge. "They dismounted," he said confidently.

The captor frowned. "And just why would they do that?"

"A horse that burdened? It wouldn't have lasted much longer. It was probably half dead already. It needed to rest, otherwise they would have had to leave it behind. So they continued on foot."

" _On foot?"_ the captor protested. "And why on Earth would they continue _on foot?_ "

"If you knew anything about horses, you wouldn't be asking me this."

The guy looked at the ground and then back up, determined. "What if – and just humour me now – what if they dismounted and stayed here? What if they didn't go on?"

D'Artagnan's tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth, his breaths too loud in his ears. How was it possible that they didn't hear him _existing_?

A deep laugh boomed through the trees. "Don't be ridiculous," Burly said. "There are still the prints of two horses in the soil; they wouldn't have let them both go. That would be plain stupid."

"Or brilliant." The captor inclined his head toward the ground. "Tell me, are there any human footprints?"

The other man sighed. "No," he confessed begrudgingly. "But there wouldn't be. The soil here is dry. They could have moved about without leaving a trail."

"Besides," the third man chimed in again, "both of them were seriously injured. I don't see how they could possibly survive without the horses."

Slowly, d'Artagnan was starting to see the problem in that, too.

"Exactly," the big man agreed, satisfied with the new supporter he had gained. "And we're only wasting time standing around and chatting. Let's find them and kill them and get it over with. Let's get back home and move on."

The three men remounted, some more willing than others, and rode on, loyally following the trail. D'Artagnan exhaled deeply enough to shrink to what felt like half his former size. He leaned his back against the boulder behind him, utterly enfeebled, and slid all the way down to the ground. His leg complained at the change of position, but he didn't let himself rest for long. Instead, he pulled himself up only moments later, one hand on the cold stone for balance, and picked up the last remaining bag of food. Then, he hoisted up René, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

René groaned and opened his eyes, not lucid but awake.

"We have to move," d'Artagnan told him, even as he tried to find the motivation himself. It couldn't be that far anymore, he reasoned – they had been riding for a while. They had covered quite a lot of ground. Paris had to be near. A day's walk away, maybe? Could it be more than that?

"How far?" René asked, once again reading his mind. D'Artagnan smiled bitterly.

"Not far," he said vaguely, because it was the only thing to say. He pushed his body forward, one limping step and then another, and felt René put all his remaining energy into keeping his footing. It had to be an enormous effort, because he started sweating after only a few steps, even though the night air was cold on their hot faces.

D'Artagnan tried to choose his path well, ever mindful of where he planted his feet. It was time to prove the bandits right. It was time to move about without leaving a trail.

* * *

They rested a lot and limped a lot, stumbled, fell, ached and cried. Dawn came about. Another morning passed with no hint of Paris. Noon passed, too, and the path d'Artagnan had chosen led the two Musketeers out of the woods and into the clear. The afternoon dragged by sluggishly, and the Gascon found his vision greying more with every hurtful step, but was determined to keep up the effort.

Suddenly, without warning, they stumbled upon a street.

D'Artagnan stopped dead in his tracks. The weight on his shoulders got heavier instantly. He suddenly felt the ground coming closer and landed on his backside, letting René slump over unceremoniously.

He looked at the commotion through burning eyes, unable to comprehend. He sat. There were horses and carts and people all around; they were moving this way and that, some angry and some not, some happy, some sad, women, children, men, old, young small, big, fat, thin – it was like Paris.

But it couldn't be Paris. His brothers were nowhere to be seen.

Someone came over to them and asked if they needed help and he said one single word, _Paris,_ and then another man came and offered them a ride. Or at least, d'Artagnan though he did. The man looked at him questioningly, the sun caught in his fiery red hair. He was small and kind.

D'Artagnan said, "Paris?"

And the man answered, "Yeah, Paris."

D'Artagnan said, "But _that_ Paris?"

And the man said, confused this time, "There only is _one_ Paris."

D'Artagnan turned away, shaking his head, and said, "Is it the _right_ Paris, though?"

And the man frowned and said, "I'm pretty sure it cannot be the wrong one. Come with me, I have a cart. Paris isn't that far, but you can rest a little on the way there. Does that sound okay?"

D'Artagnan only nodded and let himself be led over to a wooden waggon with two horses standing in front. He didn't ask what had happened to René, mostly because he was fairly sure that the nice farmer had loaded him onto the cart, too. He was pretty certain that his fellow Musketeer was lying next to him at that exact moment, but he didn't feel like he could shift his head even a little to confirm the suspicion. Besides, if he made one wrong move, this whole fantasy could break and crumble and disappear – and then, what would he have left?

He closed his eyes and sighed. He was calm, but he wasn't happy or relieved or satisfied. Because he knew this was a dream, and he knew he would wake up soon enough.

* * *

He heard a voice.

"Hey! Hey, where shall I drop you off?"

He grumbled and sighed. The ground under him was hard but comfortable.

He heard a smack and suddenly his cheek was stinging. His eyes shot open. Not because of the pain – he had developed a certain immunity to that –, but out of a deep sense of surprise. Kind men weren't supposed to slap people. Much less kind men in dreams. They were supposed to exist and play their role and then send you back to reality.

Was this reality?

"Sorry," someone said and the redhead appeared in the middle of d'Artagnan's very blurry field of vision. "But I couldn't wake you any other way. What happened to you, anyway – you look like you're going to die if you don't sleep a few months straight."

D'Artagnan merely shook his head and a bit of the farmer's enthusiasm faded.

"Right. Well, where do you wanna go?"

D'Artagnan thought. He knew this was supposed to be an easy question, but the facts were all addled up in his mind into a mass of confusion. He squinted and looked at the man.

"Paris," he croaked.

The farmer frowned worriedly. "We already _are_ in Paris," he clarified slowly. "Don't you remember? You know, I offered you a ride and you accepted. I want to know _where_ in Paris you want to go. Believe it or not, this town is pretty big."

D'Artagnan tried to think around the furious pounding in his head, but it was to no avail. There was no way he could concentrate, and so he simply said the first place that came to mind.

"The Musketeer garrison."

 _Home,_ his brain supplied belatedly, choosing that moment to drown in an unexpected flood of melancholy. D'Artagnan felt a single tear glide down his cheek – the last one he had. He had used all the others up, but this one was special. This was the tear that welcomed him home.

"The _Musketeer garrison_?" the farmer marvelled. "Why in God's name –"

"Could we just go, please?" D'Artagnan's voice was broken and sore. The farmer nodded and got the cart moving without having to be told twice.

D'Artagnan saw the familiar streets drift by, noticed the details. It all looked just the way he remembered; dirty and bustling and full. It reeked and it was loud.

He loved it.

He fell asleep or passed out, but when he opened his eyes once more, the cart wasn't moving.

And before him, rising up into the sky in the most beautiful shape d'Artagnan had ever seen, was the garrison. It bathed, quiet and disciplined, in the evening sun, a safe haven in the middle of Paris's packed streets. _Safe._

He had forgotten that the word even existed.

Someone was suddenly hurrying toward them and a whole group of people – Musketeers, _brothers –_ gathered around the cart. René was hoisted up and brought to the infirmary and d'Artagnan wanted to watch him go, wanted to see him well cared for, but someone else demanded his attention. He looked into grey eyes and found himself longing for green. Or brown. Not this.

"Aramis?" he asked. "Athos? Porthos?"

"Come on," the Musketeer insisted, trying to get him to move. "We'll talk about it later."

D'artagnan sighed, the world spinning around him.

"René?" he queried, not because it was one of the hundred things he wanted to know, but because it was the one thing he _had_ to know, before –

Well, before. Before everything. _Now._

"He's being taken care of," the Musketeer reassured. "He'll be fine. But you won't be if you don't relax and let me help you."

 _Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine._

 _He'll be fine._

Nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

**The last chapter, you guys! A bit of fluff in this one - and dare I reveal that they finally reunite? Anyway, I hope this has been half as fun for you as it was for me. Thanks for all the reviews and the follows! For the past week they've been the one thing that would always make me smile. Seriously, they have the power to make a bad day good. I kid you not.**

 **So, thanks! Here we go, enjoy.**

* * *

When d'Artagnan woke, it was to the face of captain Treville in front of his own. He squinted and frowned.

Had he done something wrong?

„Hello, d'Artagnan. How are you feeling?"

When he thought about it, he found that his body was steadily pulsing, his head a pounding mess. He was cold and warm at the same time, sweaty and shivering. He'd definitely had better days. When he tried to answer, his throat refused to work. Nothing came over his lips. He looked at his captain pleadingly and Treville understood. He stood, walked to a table and filled a cup with water, then came back.

„Drink slowly," he said, pressing the cup against d'Artagnan's parched lips and tilting it carefully. „I've been warned I shouldn't give you too much. I've also been warned not to let you talk."

D'Artagnan wanted to protest, but the water was much too cool and soothing as it slipped down his throat. He felt his eyes close in admiration. The cup was pulled away much too soon, and the captain reclaimed his abandoned seat, leaning back casually. Only his eyes betrayed any sort of tension and d'Artagnan was so surprised that he had to do a double-take.

He opened his mouth –

„Don't speak," Treville ordered. „I'm pretty certain I know what you are going to ask, anyway. I'll tell you everything. Just stay silent and let your throat heal."

His voice carried an eerie edge and d'Artagnan decided to nod.

„Good. Well, first, let's talk about René. He's been brought to the infirmary and taken good care of. He'd been shot in the left shoulder – as I'm sure you already know –; he had a few cracked ribs, a nasty wound on the back of his head but no concussion, and many – _too many_ – bumps and bruises scattered all over his body. The wound in his shoulder got infected, so he's currently battling a fever. But he has already woken up a few times and is now peacefully resting. The physician assures me that he is going to be fine. René wanted me to thank you for bringing him back – for saving his life, d'Artagnan, which I am sure he won't take lightly –, and he said he would come check on you as soon as he's able to move.

„Which brings me to you."

D'Artagnan wanted to protest, wanted to make clear that his condition wasn't the most important issue, that he had to know where _they_ were, but Treville merely lifted a hand and stopped him.

„I said I would explain _everything,_ d'Artagnan, and I am a man of my word.

„So, you were in a pretty nasty state yourself. The physician was shocked to hear that you had been conscious upon arrival. The wound in your leg had got infected as well – seriously, you could have taken better care of those bandages – and so you have a fever, too. It is still rising as we speak, but the physician assured me that he is getting it under control. How you brought René and yourself home, though, is a mystery to him. Not to me. I know you far too well." He winked, then cleared his throat.

„You have been unconscious or sleeping for three days now, d'Artagnan.

„You had similar injuries to René's; bruises, bumps, cracked bones here and there. A fingernail on your right hand had been removed but had already started growing back. The physician said not to worry. He also said – quite unnecessarily, I might add, because I am well educated in the science of injury – that there are signs of–" He heaved a deep breath and his voice hitched ever so slightly, his continual monologue interrupted for the shortest of seconds – „torture."

D'Artagnan swallowed hard and looked at his hands. His eyes were heavy and burning and he knew he wouldn't be able to listen to anything more Treville had to say on the subject. His head shook and the captain nodded, moving on to the next explanation without missing a beat.

„A certain Madame Bonacieux has been coming by regularly ever since you have gone missing. She wanted me to tell you that. She also wanted me to tell you that she couldn't wait for you to wake, because her husband has a lot of work to do and needs her help. But–" He leaned closer to the bed, an uncharacteristically mischievous twinkle in his eyes, „between you and me, she looked about ready to murder her _busy_ husband and stay here anyway." He shrugged and leaned back. „I wonder why she didn't."

D'Artagnan tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace of pain and frustration. He ran a bandaged hand through his hair and felt the burn the motion caused.

He knew a lot now, wasn't as confused anymore as he'd been right after waking up. But he still didn't know the one thing he wanted to find out most of all, and he felt that his time was running out, unconsciousness nearing relentlessly.

„'thos, P'thos, 'mis?" he croaked therefore, just to urge the captain in the right direction.

„You're not supposed to talk, remember?" Treville chided half-heartedly. „Fine, let's see what I can tell you about those three.

„See, once the Musketeers returned from the mission without you, all hell broke loose. They were all interrogated, but no one has seen much of anything. Villers was apparently the one to speak to you last. Athos, Aramis and Porthos planned the whole night through, then left as soon as the sun climbed over the horizon. They've been on missions on and off ever since, searching for you everywhere. They're doing it as we speak. As far as I know, they should be back by tomorrow."

„'kay?" d'Artagnan rasped worriedly.

Trevilled sighed. „They're as okay as can be expected. They've been holding on to the hope that you're still alive. But, d'Artagnan, you have to understand that this has roughed them up quite badly. We're soldiers and we all know, of course, that we could die any second, but whenever a Musketeer actually does, things get pretty desperate around here.

„Disappearing, though – that's even worse. The unknown, the endless questions without answers. You can count yourself lucky that you've never had to experience that. Losing a friend to mystery. The lingering possibility of something worse than death – that is torture too, d'Artagnan, nothing like what you've been through, but torture nonetheless."

Silence engulfed them, silence that reminded d'Artagnan much too much of a place he didn't want to think about. He looked expectantly at his captain, hoping that he would guess how he was feeling just the way he had guessed everything else. It took a while, but eventually Treville granted him his unspoken wish.

„You had me worried too, you know," he added absent-mindedly.

„Sorry," d'Artagnan breathed, but the captain waved away the sentiment.

„No need to apologize for anything, d'Artagnan. It was hardly your fault. But I think we shouldn't let them worry any more than is necessary. Rest, d'Artagnan, so that the fever may brake and your body recover."

The Gascon didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

The next time, he woke to voices.

" _Where_?" a demanding one questioned, one that d'Artagnan was sure he knew but couldn't place quite yet.

"A few minutes away," another one answered. "Should I bring them here?"

"Of course. And hurry."

"Yes, Captain." A door opened and shut, someone sighed and everything was quiet.

He felt someone lean low above his head. "I am going to leave you alone now, d'Artagnan," Treville whispered soothingly. "They'll be here any minute. You're in good hands."

The door opened and shut once more. And he was alone.

He could hardly stand that thought. His eyes snapped open and scanned the little room. He was in Treville's own chamber, he realised, lying in his captain's bed and not in the infirmary – but he dismissed the revelation without batting an eye. The covers were suddenly thrown back (his arm burned), his feet on the ground (his leg screamed and he would have, too, hadn't his throat been so raw and bloody) and his body flexing and relaxing in the attempt to get him up. Then he was out of bed, stumbling toward the door. His legs quickly proved too weak to carry his weight and he stumbled and fell, but he wasn't exactly one to give up. One burning arm in front of the other, he pulled himself forward, then repeated the process until he was, slowly but surely, crawling toward his goal.

He pushed the door open and he was outside.

It was bitterly cold. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground. A harsh wind was scraping his face, entering into his strained lungs and letting them flare up. He coughed, burying his mouth in the crook of his elbow and closing his eyes. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall limp against his chest.

What had he been _thinking_?

His clothes had obviously been changed, leaving him only with a thin night shirt and all the bandages draped around various injuries. Goose bumps had formed immediately; his body started to shiver and made his teeth clatter. This couldn't be good, he thought blurrily.

Too weary to go back or move forward, he decided to wait for whoever Traville had said was coming.

They didn't take long. Only minutes later, he could hear loud voices, booming even over the ever stronger wind. And he recognised _those,_ recognised them immediately. How could he not? His eyes instantly snapped open, his heart picking up against his ribcage.

They were here. After so long, they were finally _here._

" _What_?" Athos's sturdy voice floated over. " _Where?"_

There was an answer d'Artagnan couldn't make out.

"He said to tell us that?" Aramis queried, his tone dangerous and deadly. "You're sure?"

And then he could see them.

His eyes locked with Athos's for the shortest of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The world spun together with his thousand thoughts, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat. Funny how _good_ things and _bad_ things could make him feel the same way. _Torture_ made a lump form in his throat. _Home_ did, too. But those were two different lumps, weren't they? One was happy and one was sad. One promising, the other hostile. There _had_ to be a difference, because he couldn't go back there again.

And there was. When Athos found his bearings and started moving toward him, when _all three_ of them started moving toward him, he stayed where he was. Not because he physically wasn't able to move, not because he was all but frozen to the spot – but because he _wanted_ to wait. He wanted to stay. He hadn't wanted it for so long.

Boots pounded off the wooden steps as all three of them tried to climb them at the same time. They fought momentarily over who would go first and – unsurprisingly – Porthos proved the victor, all but jumping toward d'Artagnan. He fell to the floor next to him and placed the thin frame onto his lap, his strong arms wrapped protectively around him and his body rocking with something that weren't sobs, and weren't laughs either. Athos was next to them only a moment later, his hands brushing over d'Artagnan's hair and face and body and legs, as if to make sure he was actually there. Aramis sat down beside Athos, his eyes and fingers roaming over the Gascon's form. Their hands were warm and soft, _soothing,_ and d'Artagnan exhaled.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, as if not grasping the full extent of the situation. "D'Artagnan, d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan."

"'Thos."

Porthos squeezed harder. Aramis bowed his head, burying it in the soft fabric of d'Artagnan's shirt, clutching his cross with a white-knuckled hand. He was murmuring something unintelligible, and none of them even make the effort to understand.

"You're here," d'Artagnan breathed instead, and Athos nodded.

"So are you."

"But you're _real._ "

Another curt nod. D'Artagnan felt himself smile out of a true sense of happiness. He felt it bubble out of his stomach, up his throat and spill over his lips in a waterfall. And he laughed. He felt himself tense in pain but found that he couldn't stop – and then came the tears and he was half laughing, half crying, and he didn't quite know what he was feeling anymore, only that he was _home_ and so were _they_.

"You're okay," Porthos muttered and his chest rumbled under d'Artagnan's cheek whenever he said a word. "We've got you. You're safe."

The words seemed too good to be true.

Aramis looked up from his prayers, his eyes misty and unfocused. He smiled through the redness, placing a hand on top of d'Artagnan's hair.

"Don't do that ever again," he said. "Just … just don't, okay?"

The Gascon nodded uncertainly, feeling himself shiver.

Porthos noticed immediately. "You're freezin'," he proclaimed and rubbed two hands over d'Artagnan's exposed arms. "Why was you out 'ere, anyway, whelp? It's way too cold. You should be in there, restin'."

D'Artagnan groaned.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned, unable to rip his gaze away from the friend they had all thought lost in order to look at the medic. Nothing happened. Aramis didn't even seem to register the demand.

" _Aramis."_ Firmer now. More urgent. D'Artagnan felt his eyes closing. He snuggled closer to Porthos, enjoying the extra body heat.

"ARAMIS!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Aramis sighed. "We have to get him inside. He's much too cold out here."

"I knew that."

"I _know_ ," Aramis huffed. "I can't say much yet, just that his injuries have all been taken care of. We have to get him inside."

Porthos stood without regard to anything else, and carried d'Artagnan effortlessly through the door. Athos and Aramis were right on his heels. D'Artagnan yelped when his bones were jostled, but then heat engulfed him, comfortable and nice, and he found himself losing the battle with unconsciousness.

"No. D'Artagnan, stay awake," he heard Athos's voice and forced his eyes back open. Porthos lay him down on the bed, then stepped back reluctantly to let Aramis closer.

A cool hand was pressed to his forehead. "You're a little warm; are you feeling okay or should I give you something for the fever?" D'Artagnan shrugged, his eyes drifting closed again, but a gentle pat to the cheek brought him back to reality. "Hey, hey. Look at me. That's it. I just want to examine you, then you can sleep. That sound okay?"

The Gascon nodded once.

"Okay." Probing hands glided over his aching body, pushing tender spots and making him flinch every so often. Quiet murmurs spilled over the medic's lips, commenting on everything he found, and d'Artagnan felt the tension in the room grow with each hushed word. Once he was done, Aramis pulled the covers right to the Gascon's chin, and smiled down at him bitterly.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos questioned warily, his expression brooding and a hand still resting on the Gascon's arm. "Can you tell us who did this to you?" There was a barely contained rage in his voice, hiding under the surface of the trembling words.

D'Artagnan swallowed, having to remind himself that the anger wasn't directed at him. The anger was for the captor, for the one who'd made d'Artagnan suffer, and it was born out of Athos's devotion. The Gascon looked into the green eyes and they stared back, uncharacteristically wild. Weary and red, but still the same eyes.

He knew then, that he could. He could tell them anything they wanted to know. He could tell them anything _he_ wanted them to know. And he would, he promised himself, as soon as he got a good night's sleep that would help him sort out the details.

"Later?" he rasped hopefully.

"Don't talk too much," Aramis quickly ordered, and Athos nodded his understanding.

"Of course. Whenever you're ready."

"You can rest now, d'Artagnan," Porthos reassured. "We're not goin' anywhere."

He let his eyes slip closed, because he believed them.

* * *

He knew it was the middle of the night the next time he opened his eyes, but only because it was already dark outside. The three other people in the room weren't showing signs of wanting to go to sleep any time soon, though. They were all seated around the bed, playing a game of cards on the blankets covering his legs.

He quickly closed his eyes again, hoping not to disturb the game.

"Oh, you wish," Porthos said and tapped lightly against d'Artagnan's foot. It felt as if the Gascon was part of the fun, even though he wasn't actively participating. They were including him even when he couldn't contribute. "This card right here is the best you can do?"

"Oh, hell. We all know you cheat, Porthos, you could at least _try_ to do it a bit more subtly," Aramis shot back.

"Subtle is my middle name."

Aramis snorted. "If Subtle is _your_ middle name, then _Ugly_ is mine."

"Seems about right," Porthos agreed mockingly.

"Will you two stop being idiots for a second and actually acknowledge that I've _won_?" Athos's rational voice chimed in. It was silent for a few moments, then Aramis spoke up again.

"Damn," he said. "Athos has actual skill, does he not? I mean, to beat Porthos – that's all great and fun –, but to beat _me_ ; well, that takes competence. Let's call it a night and say that Porthos buys us drinks next time, and let that be the end of it."

"Hey!"

"I can't say I disagree," Athos admitted.

" _Hey!_ "

"Look, it's only fair. I paid last time and Athos has bought us that delicious meatloaf the other day. Remember?"

"Wha' about the whelp?" Prothos grumbled teasingly, and everyone fell silent. The Gascon could hear their brains rattling quite clearly.

"We could have lost him," someone breathed and d'Artagnan would have thought it was Athos if it hadn't been for the teary quality of the voice.

"I know," Aramis agreed. "Still gives me the chills. Probably always will."

"But that's not the problem, is it?" Porthos pointed out. "We could _still_ lose 'im, we could lose 'im any second if …"

 _If he becomes a Musketeer,_ hung heavily and unspoken, but true in the air.

"And then what?" Aramis agreed.

"Then we live on without him, right?" Athos said, his voice small and uncertain. "Isn't that what you do? Loved ones pass away and you move on, and you live without them."

"Yeah, but could you do that with the whelp?" Prothos questioned. "'Cause I can't imagine it."

It was silent. Too silent for d'Artagnan's liking and he was just about to say something when Athos spoke up again.

"I think I need him," he said quietly, so quietly that the Gascon had to strain his ears to hear.

Another silence, deeper this time and filled with genuine surprise. The people in the room let the words sink in, the words of a brooding man that had opened up.

"I think we all do," Aramis finally concurred. "I think we all do and that's the scariest thing. We're soldiers – we're not supposed to _need_ anything."

"Wrong," Porthos argued, suddenly seeming the wisest of them all. "We're people, too. We _need_ to need something. And _because_ we're soldiers, this is all we get. Each other. Though if you ask me, that's a hell of a lot right there."

Hums of agreement drifted through the air. D'Artagnan wanted so desperately to join in, to tell them that he was of the same opinion, that he needed them, too, but the next dream was already too close.

And he knew that this one wasn't going to be dark and scary and hurtful. It was going to be nice and peaceful. Because of them.

Everything was always _because of them,_ and he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
